Whose steps a saintly figure trod, He landed in our view, 'Midst flaming hosts above; Whose ranks stood silent, while he drew Nigh to the throne of love, And meekly took the lowest seat, Yet nearest his Redeemer's feet. Thrilled with ecstatic awe, And saw-yet wist not what they saw, And heard-no tongue can tell What sounds the ear of rapture caught, What glory filled the eye of thought. Thus far above the pole, On wings of mountain fire, Faith may pursue the enfranchised soul, But soon her pinions tire; It is not given to mortal man Eternal mysteries to scan. -Behold the bed of death; This pale and lovely clay; Heard ye the sob of parting breath? No;-life so sweetly ceased to be, Could tears revive the dead, Bury the dead;—and weep In stillness o'er the loss; Bury the dead;-in Christ they sleep And from the grave their dust shall rise No. II. THE MEMORY OF THE JUST. STRIKE a louder, loftier lyre; Bolder, sweeter strains employ; Wake, Remembrance! and inspire Sorrow with the song of joy. Who was he, for whom our tears Flowed, and will not cease to flow? Full of honours and of years, In the dust his head lies low. Yet resurgent from the dust, He was one, whose open face Kindness all his looks expressed, Him the eye beheld and blessed, Like a patriarchal sage, Holy, humble, courteous, mild, He could blend the awe of age With the sweetness of a child. As a cedar of the LORD, On the height of Lebanon, While in green luxuriant prime, Thus he flourished, tall and strong, Wealth, which prodigals had deemed Worth the soul's uncounted cost; Wealth, which misers had esteemed Cheap, though heaven itself were lost. This with free unsparing hand To the poorest child of need, This he threw around the land, Like the sower's precious seed. In the world's great harvest-day, Shall a hundredfold be found. Yet, like noon's refulgent blaze, Though he shone from east to west, Far withdrawn from public gaze, Secret goodness pleased him best. As the sun, retired from sight, Through the purple evening gleams, Or, unrisen, clothes the night In the morning's golden beams; Thus beneath the horizon dim, Oft his silent spirit went, Like an angel from the throne, Then the widow's heart would sing, To the blind, the deaf, the lame, Help to all he did dispense, Deeds of mercy, deeds unknown, Which he durst not call his own, As the earth puts forth her flowers, Thus his renovated mind, Warm with pure celestial love, Full of faith, at length he died, Won the crown for which he vied- No. III. A GOOD MAN'S MONUMENT. THE pyre that burns the aged Brahmin's bones, In savage realms, when tyrants yield their breath, Herds, flocks, and slaves attend their lord in death; Arms, chariots, carcases, a horrid heap, Rust at his side, or share his mouldering sleep. When heroes fall triumphant on the plain, The pageantry of public grief requires And genius moulds impassioned brass to breathe And watching angels waited for the day When Christ should bid them roll the stone away. 'Midst slaughtered legions, he resigned his life; No sculptured imagery, of bronze or stone, Reynolds requires :—his labours, merits, name, Not to record and praise his virtues past, But show them living, while the world shall last; In every age a Reynolds; born to stand More than a prince-a sinner saved by grace, Bristol to thee the eye of Albion turns; Are "British minds and British manners" found: From every clime on thy commercial shore, Thou hast a native mine of worth untold; |